Arthur Clarke - Time’s Eye

“Shit!” Sable shouted. “There must be a wind—”

“If we tip over,” Musa said, his voice made uneven by the jarring, “we could have trouble extricating ourselves.”

“Maybe you should have thought of that before!” Sable yelled.

Another slam, a scraping ride, a bounce. Though the padding of his suit protected his body, Kolya found his head rattling inside his helmet, his forehead slamming against the faceplate. There was nothing they could do but endure the ride, and pray that the capsule didn’t tip.

But then, with a final bounce and scrape, the capsule was still—and it was upright. They sat there, scarcely breathing. Musa quickly punched a button to release the parachute.

Kolya was unbearably hot; he could feel sweat puddled under his back inside the suit. He reached out—his arm felt enormously heavy—and searched for Musa’s gloved hand. For a moment they held each other, reassuring themselves of their continued existence.

“We are all right,” panted Musa. “We are down. ”

“Yes,” said Sable, her voice a gasp. “But down where ?”

Even now there was some routine, as they worked to close down the spacecraft’s remaining systems. Kolya turned off the ventilator, and took off his helmet and gloves. A valve to allow in air from outside had opened some minutes before the landing, and Kolya tasted air that was noticeably free of the dust that had plagued the Soyuz.

Musa grinned at him. “I can smell polin .”

“Yes.” It was a sweet, smoky aroma. Polin, a kind of wormwood, grew all over the steppe. The familiar scent seemed to invigorate Kolya. “Perhaps this Mir of yours won’t be so strange after all!”

Musa grunted. “There’s only one way to find out.” He punched another button. Latches clicked. The hatch above their heads sprung open, and Kolya saw a circle of cloud-choked gray sky. More fresh air pushed into the cabin.

Musa released his straps and pushed at his couch. “This is the part I have been dreading.” He had to be the first to move because of his central position. Slowly, moving like a very old man, he struggled to his feet. Normally a team of rescuers and medics would be on hand to help him out of the cabin, like lifting a china doll from its packaging; today there was nobody to help. Kolya and Sable both leaned over, pushing at his rump and legs, but Kolya felt weak as a kitten himself. Musa said, “This damn suit is so stiff, it fights against me.”

At last he was upright, and he pushed his head outside the capsule. Kolya saw him squint in the light, and his thick thatch of hair was blown by the wind. Then his eyes widened. He got his hands on the hull—it was still hot from the reentry, and he had to be cautious—then, with what seemed a superhuman effort to Kolya, he lifted himself up until he was sitting on the lip of the hatch.

“Me next,” Sable said. She was visibly weakened, but compared to Musa she seemed agile and eager. She swarmed up out of her couch, and allowed Musa to help pull her up until she was sitting beside him. “My, my,” she said.

Kolya, left alone in the capsule, could see nothing but their dangling legs. “What’s happening? What’s out there?”

Musa said to Sable, “Help me.” He lifted his legs out of the hatch, turned ponderously on his belly, and held up his hands to her. Then he slid down the curving side of the Soyuz and out of Kolya’s sight.

Sable peered down at Kolya, grinning. “Come see the show.”

When Kolya forced himself to his feet, he felt as if all the blood was draining from his brain. He stood still until the feeling of fainting had dissipated a little. Then he reached up to the hatch, and let Sable help him haul himself up until he was sitting at the top of the hull.

Kolya was maybe two meters up from the ground. The descent compartment was a dome of metal sitting on the grass. From this elevation he saw the eternal steppe, flat and semi-infinite, stretching away under a great lid of cloud. It had been marked by their landing: a series of crude gouges and craters led up to the final position of the craft, and further away the discarded main chute lay on the ground, billowing forlornly, a startling orange against the yellow-green ground.

Directly ahead of him there was a kind of village. It was just a huddle of grubby, dome-shaped tents. People stood, men, women and children, all bundled up in furs. They were staring at him, open-mouthed. Beyond, horses grazed, loosely tethered, unperturbed.

A man walked out of the tent village. He had a broad face, deep-set black eyes that seemed very close together, and he wore a heavy full-length coat and a conical cap, both made of fur. He was holding a heavy sword of beaten iron.

“A Mongol warrior,” Sable whispered.

Kolya glanced at her. “You expected this, didn’t you?”

“I thought there was a good chance, based on what we saw from orbit …”

The breeze shifted, and a stench of cooked meat, unwashed flesh, and horse sweat hit Kolya. It was as if a veil had been torn away from his face, and suddenly he was confronted with the reality: this really was the past, or a fragment of it, and he was stranded in it.

Musa was managing to stand, with one hand on the hull of the spacecraft for support. “We have fallen from space,” he said to the man, smiling. “Isn’t that a marvelous thing? Please …” He held out his empty hands. “Can you help us?”

The warrior reacted so quickly Kolya could barely follow the move. That sword flashed through the air, blurring like a helicopter blade. Musa’s head flipped into the air, cut off as easily as the head of a steppe daisy, and it rolled like a football in the dirt. Musa’s body still stood, the arms still outstretched. But blood gushed in a sudden fountain from the stump of his neck, running down the scuffed orange of his spacesuit. Then the body fell, rigid.

Kolya stared down at Musa’s severed head, scarcely able to believe what had happened.

The warrior raised his sword again. But with his free hand he beckoned the others to climb down to the ground.

“Welcome to Mir,” Sable muttered. Kolya, horrified, thought he heard a note of triumph in her voice.

Grasper wasn’t troubled by her confinement. She was so young, perhaps she had forgotten that any other way of life had ever existed. She would roam around the cage floor or climb up the netting; she would swing from the shining object that held it all up; she explored her own ears and nostrils with ruthless efficiency.

As the days wore on the men beyond the netting seemed to be growing more agitated, but they never failed to bring the man-apes their food and water. Grasper would come clambering up the net walls and try to reach out to them, and the men would reward her with extra bits of food. Seeker, though, grew withdrawn. She hated this prison, and the strange creatures who had trapped her. Nobody praised her , or gave her extra bits of fruit; there was nothing cute about Seeker’s sullen hostility.

It got worse when the rains started.

The rains were sometimes so hard that the heavy drops pounded against your skin like a hundred tiny fists. The man-apes were always cold and sodden, and even Grasper’s bright curiosity was subdued. Sometimes the rain stung when it hit your bare flesh, your hands or feet or lips, and if it got in your eyes it could be very painful indeed.

The rain was full of acid because of events half a world away.

The new world had been stitched together from fragments of the old—but those fragments had been plucked from many different eras, across two million years. The mixing of air masses had caused the unstable weather that plagued those first days after the Discontinuity. In the oceans, too, the invisible Amazons of the great currents sought a new equilibrium.